


Sealed With A Kiss

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis isolates himself on the field of battle so that worries of Porthos cannot distract him, but today, it has placed him in a perilous situation without backup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sealed With A Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kink meme prompt.

“Aramis!”  
  
Aramis had a habit of ducking away in the middle of battle for feats of daring and cunning, things that would have Athos furious with him. In truth, it meant that he could escape away from the throng of things where he worried over what a stray musket ball or the pierce of a sword would do to the frailty of his companion's vital organs.   
  
So he ventured to the edges of the battle and he learned that an impulsive action often won the battle. Unfortunately, on the edge of battle, there were many opportunities for him to be caught off guard and despite his being the best shot in the Musketeers (by Porthos’ standards, which were very low), he soon had three people on him.   
  
“Let’s see you escape from here,” one of the Spaniards hissed at him, their native tongue meaning the threat was intended for someone who clearly understood.  
  
Aramis opened his mouth to retort, wanting to show that he wasn’t frightened by such dull threats, but he had no time for it.  
  
That was when the blade sliced through him, skewering him in his shoulder as though he were a morsel of food. Aramis staggered back, his quip now silent on the tip of his tongue. Aramis felt his knees weaken, but he switched his pistol to his other hand, firing off a shot before dropping it, knowing he couldn’t reload.  
  
Instead, he used his sword to clumsily bat away his opponents. His strikes were weak and though he was able to stop another one, he was quickly fumbling as he tucked a hand over his wound, staggering backwards.  
  
The edge of battle, however, was not entirely the edges of the wild and it was from the centre of the skirmish that his salvation came. “ Get away!” Porthos growled, running without a single hint of stopping. Aramis’ attacker was shocked by the sheer gall of his new opponent and was entirely unprepared for Porthos’ large fist accosting his face.  
  
It took no sword at all to put him down.  
  
“My hero,” Aramis quipped, though the pain from his shoulder caused a small burble of pain to escape past his lips. Porthos crowded him, his hands supporting his waist cautiously as he fumbled to pry his hat off, following by his bandanna, ripping out the elegant braiding that Aramis himself had done. “Must you ruin everything?”  
  
“Would you rather I don’t save your life?” Porthos retorted.  
  
Aramis sighed, as though this were a great decision to be made. “I suppose it will do,” he said with a flair of a gesture, hissing as Porthos laid him to the ground. He gave another protest when Porthos didn’t lay him down quite as gently as he might have liked, cursing at him with all the passion he could summon.  
  
The wound was sapping his energy and robbing his defenses.  
  
It was this excuse he held for why he felt his tongue loosen as though he had drunk a bottle of wine. “I’m glad it was you,” he murmured, watching as Porthos forcibly ripped his shirt off. “Mind my shirt! You don’t have to tear it apart to get to the wound!”  
  
“You do things your way, I do ‘em mine,” Porthos replied, beginning to staunch the bleeding with the bandanna as he straddled Aramis to get close enough to properly keep the wound from bleeding. “Glad it was me?”  
  
“I like watching you beat people with your fists,” Aramis confessed with a great fondness. “They never seem to expect it, though they ought to, looking at you.”  
  
“Are you saying I’m a brute?”  
  
“I’m saying there’s more strength in your hands than in the walls that held up Rome for centuries.”  
  
Porthos scoffed, shaking his head. “Bleeding out and it’s nothing but poetry. I shouldn’t be so surprised.”  
  
“Is he all right?” Athos shouted, from where the fray had calmed.  
  
“He can’t move until I mend him, but I’m sure he’ll recover when he gets within ten feet of a pretty lass,” Porthos called back, but it was no pretty lass that Aramis had his eyes on. He sucked in air sharply as Porthos shifted in his lap, mumbling apology when he mistook Aramis’ interest for pain. Porthos turned his attention back to Aramis, cautious not to put too much pressure. “You figure you can walk me through a stitch or two?”  
  
“Get my kit and I’ll show you to patch me up like a fine set of drapes.”  
  
Aramis let out a soft sound of disappointment when Porthos rose off him, leaving him to fetch his kit after pressing the bandanna into Aramis’ hand and forcing him to tend to his own wound. He bowed his head lower, counting under his breath until Porthos returned with the leather satchel that Aramis kept with him at all times.  
  
“You’ve done this enough for me that I ought to know how, by now,” he said, sliding his fingers over Aramis’ chest to part the already torn linens, giving way to the scar-bespectacled canvas of his skin.   
  
Aramis swallowed hard, lying flat on his back on the muddy ground. He would require a hot bath to make himself feel human again and while there was always someone pretty enough to do it, he wanted Porthos at his side tonight. Those great hands of his did more than simply vanquish foes. They were always gentle and kind, when need be.  
  
In truth, he had learned a great deal from observation alone. He patched up the wound with quite a show of expertise, wrapping his bandanna over the stitches when done.  
  
“Can you ride?”  
  
Aramis considered the question, but Porthos had made up his mind before even hearing an answer.  
  
“Of course not,” he said. “You’ll come with me. Can’t trust you on your own or you do something stupid like get yourself into trouble, trying to be a hero,” Porthos grunted, hauling Aramis up from the ground and wrapping his arm around Aramis’ waist. “You can’t keep doing that, Aramis. You’ll drive me to an early grave of worrying.”  
  
“I can’t stay in the thick of things,” Aramis admitted, taking care that his kit and all his clothes and weapons were travelling with them. “You distract me far too much.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
It appeared Aramis was still too free with his words. “If it’s not watching you fight, it’s worrying about the next blade that might find its way into your skin. I find it far easier to separate myself, do dashing deeds from afar.”  
  
Porthos’ grip on Aramis tightened, slightly. “There’s another solution, you know.”  
  
“Is there?”  
  
“Fighting back to back, I should think,” Porthos murmured. “You watch my back, I get yours, and we don’t worry.” He paused, glancing over to where Athos and D’Artagnan were tidying up. When he was assured their attention was elsewhere, he clasped Aramis with one strong hand, cupping his jaw, and kissed him possessively and furiously, as if a breath of life. “Deal?”  
  
“Sealed with a kiss,” Aramis murmured, feeling rather lightheaded. “How can I say no to such a binding contract?”  
  
Though, it seemed rather cheap to accept only one kiss.  
  
“Perhaps another dozen kisses,” he negotiated.   
  
“Later,” Porthos said, clapping Aramis firmly on the small of his back. “You’ll get ten times that.”


End file.
